


Undoing the Poem

by Adrianners



Series: Measure-verse soulmate AU [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Background Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov - Freeform, Background Victor Nikiforov/Victor Nikiforov, Everybody is bi, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Multi, OT3, POV Yuri Plisetsky, Threesome - F/M/M, Yuri has angry teen crushes on everybody, Yuri on Museum, everybody is 18+ when this earns the M rating, soulmate AU where they aren't soulmates, takes place over seven years, warning: Makkachin was not immortal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 12:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14749095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrianners/pseuds/Adrianners
Summary: They said growing up was a journey of self-discovery, but Yuri Plisetsky wished he could stop learning things about himself. He would be much happier un-discovering his crush on Mila. And his crush on Otabek. Especially when they started dating each other and turned him into the most awkward third wheel in the history of the universe.Fortunately for Yuri, some discoveries sucked less than others.Or, how “Milabekio” (don’t let Yuri hear you call them that) happened in “The Measure of My Time.”





	Undoing the Poem

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the same universe as [“The Measure of My Time,”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13256457) in which about 25% of the population has an empathic (but not necessarily romantic) soulmate connection to at least one other person. Also, soulmate time travel/dimension hopping is a thing. Otabek, Yuri, and Mila aren’t soulmates. This does spoil bits of “Measure,” including the ending, so you may want to read it first.

**14.**

Mila Babicheva was Yuri’s favorite person in Saint Petersburg. It was a tough competition but a necessary one because of his new place as the only junior in Yakov’s top-level practice group. He needed to rank his future rivals based on how fucking annoying they were. So far, he was stuck on whether the worst of them was Viktor Nikiforov or Georgi Popovich, but Mila had taken the coveted Least Annoying spot. She narrowly defeated the reigning champion favorite, Nobody Because You All Suck.

Mila would attempt a triple Axel in practice sometimes and wink at Yuri while Yakov yelled at her for trying a new jump without close supervision.

“Why don’t you take that opening I keep giving you with the 3A?” she asked him while they were unlacing their skates. “You’re supposed to work on your quads while Yakov’s distracted.”

“It’s not just Yakov. Viktor says he’ll choreograph a program for me if I become world junior champion without doing quads. You’d have to distract him and Yakov at the same time.”

The next day, Mila stumbled into practice ten minutes late, sobbing about breaking up with her girlfriend. Viktor and Yakov were at her side in an instant, and Yuri got in three solid quad Sals before things calmed down. He knew Mila hadn’t been dating anybody.

She was going to be Yuri’s favorite forever. Not that he’d ever let her know that.

Mila had a soulmate she’d never met. They were either older than her or so close in age that she’d been too little to remember when they were born. She said they were kind of grumpy, but she thought maybe the point was the two of them balanced each other out. Yuri wondered if she could do the emotional equivalent of lifting her soulmate over her head, like she did to him when he mouthed off too much.

The best thing about her was that she didn’t freak out and treat him like a little kid if he said something about sex. Viktor, the bastard, had gone wide-eyed at walking in on him talking about blowjobs with some of the older juniors in the locker room and ratted him out to Yakov. That led to an excruciating lecture on STI prevention and the risk of ‘intercourse-related injuries’ with his doctor, followed by an even more excruciating conversation with Viktor.

“You can ask me about anything you need to know,” he said in a tone that he probably thought was approachable and mature, but all Yuri got from it was overbearing moron. “Anything about men, anyway. I’ve never— I mean, are you…? Um. Just please be safe and don’t rush into anything you aren’t ready for, okay?”

It wasn’t like Yuri wanted to _have_ sex yet. That required a partner. He just wanted to know more, and the best way to get there was to pretend he had more experience than he did when other skaters were sharing stories. At minimum, he wanted enough information to definitively answer the question Viktor was too embarrassed to ask: Was he gay? It was all muddled for him, whether he liked girls or just went along with it because most guys liked girls, whether he thought his old posters of Viktor (that nobody could _ever_ know about) were pretty because the long hair was feminine or because Viktor himself had once been pretty. Then there was that other Yuri from Japan—the one who could end up in the top six or barely in the free skate, depending on whether he could keep his shit together on the ice—with his graceful dancing and powerful legs. And Mila was unquestionably gorgeous, but was he into that or just impressed? What a fucking mess. Viktor probably knew he was gay by age five.

 _what does sounding mean_ he texted Mila from his dorm room.

_like in a sex context?_

_yeah_

_you’re sure you want to know?_

_just tell me before I click this video_

She told him. He didn’t watch the video. Not for a few days, anyway.

* * *

**15.**

“Will you be my friend or not?”

Nobody had ever given Yuri the choice before. Mila became his friend automatically because she sucked less than everybody else at the rink. Viktor, well, he’d tried, but he got caught up in the contradictions between being Yuri’s big brother figure, mentor, and competitor. Yuuri was too busy dragging Viktor around by his designer tie to be more than generically supportive. Even Yuuko and her girls befriended him through sheer persistence.

There was a hand extended to him, and he took it.

One week in Barcelona taught him the true meaning of ‘ride or die.’ Otabek cheered for him and didn’t show a hint of jealousy when Yuri took the gold (with a fall, a fucking _fall_ , and that was going to hang over his head until he either won more golds or fucked up even worse). He withstood his first encounter with a full-on Plisetsky tantrum and stayed at the rink to help with choreography until 4:00 a.m. He didn’t so much as blink when the last-minute addition of “I’m gonna give you my gloves one at a time, and then you shoot me with a finger-gun at the end” spontaneously turned into “I am gonna stick my actual fingers in your actual mouth” on the ice. And then it turned out Yuuri and Viktor had run off to suck face in the dressing room, so they hadn’t even been around to see him kick their asses with the most badass exhibition skate in history. And this, Yuri decided, was why they weren’t his friends and Otabek was.

Otabek showed up late to the weird museum event thing they had to attend the day after the final ended. Yuri had already done a circuit of the displays with Yuuri, which actually hadn’t been too bad, especially compared to running away from JJ and his fucking singing. He’d even gotten the promise of a sushi plushie for Grandpa out of it. Yuuri was currently getting drunker by the minute as Viktor watched over him fondly.

Yuri grabbed two glasses of champagne while the bartender’s back was turned to open another bottle. Otabek accepted his glass and made a face at the first sip. Not a champagne guy, Yuri figured. He wasn’t a big fan either, but he’d take what he could get where free drinks he wasn’t supposed to have were involved.

“You’re lucky you didn’t get here earlier,” said Yuri. “Viktor and Chris were _disgusting_. The staff almost kicked them out. Watching them get yelled at was hilarious, but they weren’t even sorry about it. Katsudon looked like he wanted to die, so Viktor started bringing him champagne to calm him down, and now here we are. Wait, what’s up?”

Otabek was holding a hand up at Yuri, palm out, in a semi-universal ‘Hold on’ signal. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and typed something onto the screen before handing it to Yuri.

_I’m sick. Lost my voice. Coach said I had to stop by here for the photo op, but I can’t talk at all._

“You’re sick? How did… Was it from staying at the rink all night Saturday? Fucking fuck, I’m sorry, this is my fault.”

Otabek smiled and shrugged in a ‘Worth it’ kind of way.

“Don’t act like you’re okay with this! You could have said no to me, everybody has to sometimes. Ugh, you even took that champagne when the bubbles were gonna hurt your throat. Damn it, Otabek!”

More typing on the phone.

_You can call me Beka. All my friends do._

“Beka.” The name felt good to say. They’d been friends, but now they were _friends_. Was he blushing? Maybe the champagne had been a bad idea. This was far from the first glass he’d sneaked. “I can do that. Um, you should call me Yura, then. Everybody does. Did. Before the Yurio thing. Don’t call me Yurio.”

In a voice that sounded like a dying bear under a hundred levels of distortion through glitchy speakers, Otabek said, “Okay, Yura.”

* * *

**16.**

“Do you know if Beka is into women?” Mila asked, and Yuri wanted to scratch her eyes out for a hot second. Then he realized that was the stupidest overreaction he’d ever had in his life, so he shrugged.

“I think so. He’s mentioned an ex-boyfriend, but he said Sophie Turner was pretty once, and it wasn’t in a gay way.” Not like he was paying such close attention that he’d added another tally mark to the ‘Bi????’ column on his mental Beka’s Sexuality Chart.

“And what, pray tell, would ‘a gay way’ have sounded like?” Mila asked, her eyes innocently wide.

“I dunno!” he snarled. “It just had an ‘I’d hypothetically hit that’ tone, not ‘I find her visually pleasing but not sexually attractive.’ He talked about her the way we talk about girls. So yeah, he’s probably with us in the bi club. What do you want, a thesis on the semiotics of queer aesthetic appreciation?”

“I don’t even know what that means. Our little Yurochka is such a good student!”

“Shut up!”

Yakov chose that moment to look up from his argument with Viktor—probably more whining about trying to do a quad-quad combo at Worlds—and yelled at everyone to quit gossiping and get back to work. Mila gave Yuri a wink and skated off into an over-exaggerated spiral.

“Is he your soulmate?” Yuri asked her at lunch.

“Of course not. I’ve never been anywhere near my soulmate. Why did you think that?”

He picked at his food and let his hair fall across his eyes. _Not transparent at all, douchebag,_ he thought. _You’ll be wearing sunglasses indoors next, and then bam! Viktor Nikiforov, Jr., master of emotional constipation until you have a sorta-kinda breakdown in ten years, and there won’t be a Yuuri to pull you out of it._

“It’s just that he’s about your age, and maybe being so chill all the time comes across as grumpy in your bond,” he said. “I dunno, why else would you be interested in him?”

“I dunno,” she answered in a mockery of his tone, “because he’s smart, talented, and hot? And like you said, he’s chill. I really liked hanging out with you and him at the Barcelona banquet, and we’ve been texting a little since then.”

“Hm.”

Mila set her fork down and placed her hand over Yuri’s. He thought about pulling his arm away, but that seemed like a dick move. Mila was his friend. He was trying not to be a dick to his friends when they hadn’t earned it. It was a new look for him, sort of like his longer (but still short-ish because _fuck you_ , Viktor) hair. It made him a grown-up now or something.

“Listen,” she said. “If you don’t want me to ask him out because you like him too, just say so. I won’t be offended.”

“What? No! It’s not like that. I just… You’re both my friends, and it’s going to be weird if you’re dating each other.”

“Vitya and Yuuri are dating each other. Is that weird?”

“They are _not_ my friends.”

Mila rolled her eyes at him. “No, they just have you over for dinner three times a week and take time out of their own training to help you through this growth spurt. That’s not what friends do at all.”

“Whatever, they just want an extra person around so they can’t argue as much.” Shit. He shouldn’t have said that.

“They’re fighting?” Mila’s fingers pressed painfully into his hand for a moment, but then she seemed to realize she was hurting him and loosened her grip.

Yuri shrugged as casually as he could. “They’re doing a therapy thing with some big-fucking-deal soulmate psychologist over Skype because the bond makes conflicts worse. Like, they literally can’t calm down because they can’t get out of each other’s heads. They told me some stuff about it.”

He didn’t add that they told him because he’d come over to deadly silence in their apartment, and they had the sheer nerve to pretend nothing was wrong all through dinner until he yelled at them. He never, ever, _ever_ wanted to see Viktor cry again.

“Sounds like something you’d tell a friend,” said Mila. “So is that why you don’t want me to go out with Beka? You’re worried we’ll fight or break up and put you in the middle of it?”

“I guess. Look, I just need some time to get used to the idea, but I’m not gonna be that asshole who tells you who you can sleep with. Ask him out, don’t ask him out, it’s your call. I’ll be an adult about it.”

“Thanks, Yura.”

“On one condition.” He waved his index finger in her face for emphasis. “Do not tell me anything about my best friend’s junk. We are not going to gossip about him like the other people you date, got it?”

“No sharing his dick pics, gotcha.”

“ _Ew_.”

“Sorry,” said Mila in a completely unapologetic monotone.

“Beka’s classier than that crap. You’d be getting tasteful nudes with lighting and angles and shit. And I don’t wanna hear about those either!”

Then Viktor literally fell asleep in his lunch on the other side of the room, and all conversation dropped in the commotion of Yuuri panicking, Viktor whining that there was soup up his nose, and Mila cackling at the whole scene. Yuri tried not to let himself think about Mila and Otabek until a few days later, when a text came through around 10:00 p.m. Almaty time.

_Is there any reason I should say no to coffee with Mila at Worlds?_

He should’ve turned read receipts off. He could pull ‘new phone who dis.’ He could fake his own death. He’d told Mila he needed _time_ , dammit. They would be arriving in Helsinki in _four days_.

He was a selfish motherfucker who didn’t deserve friends.

_nope go for it_  
_have fun_

He didn’t throw his phone afterward, not even onto his pillow. Being an adult was a pile of bullshit.

* * *

**17.**

They made a good couple.

On a day when everybody was supposed to be saying that about Viktor and Yuuri, Yuri kept thinking it about Otabek and Mila. It was refreshing to see them together again after the competition season had kept them apart for so much of the year. Yuri had never imagined there was somebody who could make Otabek enjoy dancing, but there he was, trying not to laugh as Mila kept going for gropes of his ass.

“They’re so cute together,” Yuuri said as he sank bonelessly into the chair next to Yuri’s. 

He was still Katsuki Yuuri after today (or yesterday, rather, when they’d gone to the ward office to do the legal stuff), and Viktor was still a Nikiforov, no changes or hyphens. The media and fans didn’t know what to do with it. Yuuri once answered “The _what_?” to a question about being the future Mr. Katsuki-Nikiforov and held his blank look until the reporter rephrased it to be about his and Viktor’s future careers together. A screenshot of Yuuri’s perfectly expressionless face with _WHOMST’VE_ photoshopped over it had gone toe-to-toe for viral image of the week with a gif of Viktor cracking up next to him. Yuri had to respect that level of dedication to messing with the press.

People would probably describe the ceremony in retrospect as tender, romantic, intimate, but the main thing that stuck out to Yuri was how fast it had seemed. One minute Yuuri and Viktor were being walked to the canopy by Yuuri’s parents and Yakov, respectively, and the next they were stomping on a wine glass together. He wondered if it had gone by just as quickly for them.

“Where’s your husband?” he asked.

Yuuri got that silly, far-away smile he wore every time somebody said the word ‘husband’ today. It was as if he hadn’t been there for the rings and the tears and the kissing.

“He’s outside with Chris and my family. Chris brought some New Orleans cigars from his vacation last week. Retiring after the Olympics is really letting him live it up.” He winced and took a quick, wild glance at their surroundings. “Don’t let Yakov find out Vitya’s smoking, okay? He reacts to a cigar on special occasions as if it’s a pack a day.”

Yuri mimed a pose of deep contemplation, complete with a Viktor-esque finger tapping at his lips. “Don’t tell Yakov, huh? I suppose that depends on what my silence is worth to you.”

“You keep your mouth shut around Yakov, and I won’t tell Otabek and Mila how you’ve been looking at them all day.”

Sometimes Yuuri’s cheerful, reserved attitude could make you forget: He was a stone-cold bastard right down to the core. He didn’t even stop smiling while he threatened to destroy Yuri’s life in a single blow.

“Just wondering if they’ll be next, is all,” said Yuri. It wasn’t a lie. He’d been thinking all day about Otabek and Mila asking him to be a witness if they were still together in a few years and how he was _going_ to be supportive and not spend their wedding feeling sorry for himself, dammit. He didn’t need to be jealous of other people’s relationships when he had all the time in the world. Finding a partner wasn’t like quads; you hadn’t missed your chance if you didn’t have one by your 20s.

“I have a boyfriend,” he added.

“Right,” said Yuuri in a tone that said he was very carefully not rolling his eyes. “Misha, wasn’t it? Pity he couldn’t come to Japan with you. We were clear that you could bring a date, right? We would’ve picked up the airfare for him too.”

Yuri wondered when Yuuri had started saying “we” and not “Viktor” about buying expensive things. Maybe around the time of the Under Armour deal that, rumor had it, offered them five million Euros apiece. Well, Yuri had his own sponsorships. Maybe he wasn’t clearing over half a billion rubles from a single company, but it kept him in skate boots and paid the rent on his grandpa’s new apartment. Yuuri didn’t need to hover over him about money.

“I can afford a plane ticket, Katsudon. He’s not really the bring-to-your-friends’-overseas-wedding kind of boyfriend. And his name is Maks, not Misha.”

“Ah,” said Yuuri. “I see.”

He saw right through Yuri’s bullshit, more like. Maksim wasn’t a bring-to-weddings boyfriend because he wasn’t a do-anything-but-fuck boyfriend. Yuri hadn’t bothered formally introducing him to anybody at the rink, and the identical way Viktor and Yakov’s faces went stony whenever they saw Maksim waiting for Yuri after practice told him that was the right choice. It wasn’t like he needed approval for something so casual. They didn’t have any illusions about being more than they were. That assuaged the guilt every time Yuri woke, sweating and sticky, from a dream where he’d been sandwiched between Mila and Otabek, their moans in his ears and their bodies moving perfectly with his.

He didn’t think the sex dreams meant anything beyond the obvious: He was seventeen and wanted to screw everything that moved. He’d even dreamed about sex with Viktor a few times, and that was just… Nah. Viktor was annoying and needy and probably wanted to be held afterwards. No, let Yuuri deal with that shit.

“Yurio, you know you can—”

“Talk to you and Vitya about anything, I know. You both keep telling me that. There’s not much to talk about. Yeah, I’m kinda jealous that my best friends are in a relationship that makes me the third wheel sometimes, but I don’t cry myself to sleep about it. I’m doing my own thing. And you know what? My thing today is dancing with a lonely groom because his husband abandoned him for a smoke.” He stood and dramatically flourished his arm toward Yuuri. “Let’s show these losers what real dancing looks like.”

They danced and danced, working their way through genres and styles, until Viktor came back into the reception hall and tapped Yuri on the shoulder.

“Mind if I cut in?”

Yuri dropped Yuuri’s hands in the middle of their swing dance and yelped when Viktor stepped right in and pulled him into a turn. Beside them, he could see Yuuri give an exaggerated sigh and accept Chris’ gallantly proffered hand.

“I thought you meant you were gonna dance with your husband, you bastard!” Yuri growled.

“So, would you characterize yourself as surprised?” Viktor waggled his eyebrows before dipping Yuri without warning and laughing at his angry shriek.

They switched partners at the next song, and that set off a chain reaction in the entire hall of dancing with a new person every time. Yuri danced with Leo, Phichit, Mari, all three triplets at once, and then Otabek smiled and joined him in singing deliberately wrong lyrics to an 80s new wave song.

“I get Yura next!” Mila called over Sara’s shoulder. Otabek shot her a thumbs-up.

If there were higher powers in the universe, they hated Yuri Plisetsky more than any other human being in the world. The music segued into a slow song as Mila crossed the dance floor to him. The lyrics were in Japanese, but Yuri didn’t need to speak the language well to know that he was seriously, deeply fucked. He managed an awkward laugh when Mila set her left hand on his shoulder and held out her right hand for him to take. Otabek gave her a peck on the cheek and set off toward the refreshment tables. It had taken Yuri’s cajoling to make him dance without Mila, and now he was clearly done again.

“Look at them,” Mila said and tilted her head toward Viktor and Yuuri.

They were swaying together not quite on-beat with the song. It was more of a vaguely musical hug than dancing. Viktor said something in Yuuri’s ear, and they both laughed and squeezed each other even tighter. Yuuri leaned back for a few beats and rubbed a thumb along Viktor’s cheek. Wiping away a tear, Yuri realized. All the happy crying they’d done today, and they still had more left?

“I dunno about marriage or life goals or whatever,” said Mila, “but I want something to make me that happy someday.”

“Yeah,” said Yuri, meaning it with a confidence that surprised him. “Me too.”

Mila rested her head on his shoulder—she didn’t have to stoop to do that anymore—and he couldn’t help rubbing a hand along her back, just one stroke from neck to waistline. She was warm and smelled wonderful, and Otabek was smiling at them from where Isabella Yang-Leroy (she and JJ _had_ gone the hyphen route, both of them) had dragged him back onto the dance floor.

Yuri was in so much trouble.

* * *

**18.**

Yuri was the world champion, and it felt pretty great. He went back and forth on whether it was hilarious or tragic to watch Viktor pretend not to be disappointed with Yuuri’s silver and his own ninth place finish, a kind of shitty capstone to his career. With that new senior kid from Moscow in fifth, Viktor might have to beg the World Team Trophy organizers to invite him to the gala if he wanted to do his big retirement announcement there, because the Russian skate fed could very well choose not to send him as part of the team proper.

Almost as great as winning was getting to stand next to Otabek on the podium. He hadn’t made it back up there in a few years. The field was so deep these days that first through twelfth place could span less than ten points, and Otabek’s lack of flexibility and simpler choreography hit his levels and PCS just badly enough to keep him on the lower end of that range. He was the best jumper in the world. Even Viktor, grossly biased in favor of Yuuri, said so.

Otabek glanced over at him, and they shared an easy smile before the photographers called for their attention again.

Medaling with Otabek was awesome because they were together for the next hour-plus by order of the ISU. It also sucked because none of that time could be spent actually hanging out. There were photos, the press conference, more photos, solo interviews. They couldn’t even talk between obligations because they were too busy shoving granola bars in their mouths for energy until they could finally eat dinner. It wasn’t until they were changing in the locker room (and Yuuri left with Viktor for whatever pity party they were about to throw themselves, probably with a lot of weepy sex involved) that Otabek shot him a private grin and said, “There’s a 24-hour McDonald’s across from the hotel, did you notice?”

Yuri returned the grin. “Oh, I noticed. Yakov’s too distracted with the whole impending retirement nostalgia trip to remember to ban my celebration feast. Four cheeseburgers, the biggest pack of chicken nuggets they sell, a mountain of fries, and two large chocolate shakes with extra cherries sound about right to you?”

“Perfect.” Otabek looked from Yuri to his phone screen and back again. “Milya says she’s already eaten dinner, but she’s down for a room party if we get her ice cream and don’t tell Yakov.”

“Not telling Yakov things is my specialty.”

They stuffed their faces, all three of them sitting cross-legged on Mila’s hotel room floor. Mila stole a chicken nugget and devoured her ice cream cone, but she refused any other offers to share. She did, however, tie a cherry stem in her mouth, and Otabek actually _blushed_ when Yuri gave a wolf whistle and patted him on the back at the result.

Yuri took charge of cleaning up. He was a guest in their room, after all. Somewhere in the middle of his shuffling around with burger wrappers and milkshake cups, Mila and Otabek moved from the floor to sit side-by-side on one of the beds. They were talking softly to each other when Yuri finished tossing out the garbage, but they looked up when he cleared his throat. Otabek tilted his head toward the other bed, and Yuri slowly made his way to it and sat.

“We need to talk,” said Mila.

Yuri’s stomach spontaneously took up gymnastics, and his heart decided now was a good time to leave for vacation via his throat. Nobody _ever_ said those words about anything good. With Grandpa, they had led to “Your mother is never coming back for you” all those years ago. With Yakov just a few weeks back, it was “I’m retiring after the Team Trophy.” Mila and Otabek were looking at him with something he could swear was concern, and it made him want to sink through the floor.

Mila spoke again before Yuri could develop powers of teleportation and get himself the fuck out of there.

“Do you have a thing for Beka?”

Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. Yuri tried to make himself voice a denial, but all he could do was give a strangled groan around where his heart was still struggling to get out.

“Hey, hey, stop that,” said Mila. “It’s okay. You know I don’t do jealousy. We’re both open to the two of you being together. That’s why we wanted to talk, so we could set some ground rules if you’re interested.”

“Ground rules?” he managed to squeak.

“Yeah,” said Otabek, “like how open we’d be about it in public, or if there are any lines Milya doesn’t want us to cross when we’re alone. Only if you want to do this at all,” he added hurriedly.

If he wanted. Yuri couldn’t tell if he wanted to keep breathing air at this point.

“You like me,” he said, trying out the words.

“Yeah,” said Otabek. “For a while now. Milya figured it out, so… Well, here we are.”

Mila squeezed Otabek’s knee and cast a smile at both him and Yuri, a smile so easy it began to calm Yuri’s panic. “He was worried I’d think it meant he wanted to break up, but it’s not like there’s a limit on how much affection a person can give. The two of you being together won’t take anything away from me. I can’t deny him the opportunity to be happy with you.”

The matter-of-fact way Mila talked about her boyfriend dating another man was a punch to the gut for Yuri. He could have this. He could really, truly have this. This thing he’d been too afraid to admit he wanted for literal _years_ was being offered to him freely. He groaned and buried his face in his hands. Mila’s open honesty, the warmth in her eyes, the smooth curve of her lips, every bit of it was all the more reason he couldn’t start this relationship on a lie of omission. What they were offering wasn’t what he wanted. If that meant the deal was off, so be it.

“It’s both of you,” he whispered between his fingers, eyes fixed on the hotel carpet. “I like both of you.”

“Oh,” said Mila.

Yuri chanced a look at them. Mila seemed stunned, her mouth hanging open in a way Yuri could only describe as a fish flopping around on land. But Otabek wore a small smile that lit up his face and made his eyes crinkle at the corners. Yuri had been the object of that smile many times. It always set his heart pounding, but never like it did now.

“Well, that’s much easier,” Otabek said, and in the next breath he crossed the gap between beds and gently pulled Yuri’s hands away from his face. “May I kiss you, Yura?”

Yuri answered by standing and leaning in until he could feel Otabek’s breath against his lips. Otabek set a hand at the back of Yuri’s neck, pulling him down. Otabek kissed the way he did everything: Firm and straightforward. His fingers tangled in Yuri’s hair to hold him in place. Which was good, really, because he felt like his knees were about to give out. He was kissing Otabek Altin, his best friend, while his girlfriend watched. Their girlfriend.

When they parted, Mila was standing next to them. Yuri slipped a finger under her chin to tilt her head up. Her kiss was softer than he’d imagined. His fantasies—oh, who was he kidding, it was his wank material, no need to dress it up—always involved her shoving her tongue in his mouth, nipping at his lips, invariably ending with one of them on their knees. Instead, she was giving him light pecks to the lips, straying away from his mouth to his cheeks and back, once with a detour to kiss the tip of his nose. Otabek had wrapped one arm around Yuri’s waist and stroked the fingers of his free hand down Mila’s back. She shuddered and pressed her body into Yuri’s, breaking the kiss with a gasp as Otabek ran a finger along the back of her neck again.

“ _Mean_ ,” she hissed at him, but her face gentled when she focused on Yuri. “We’d talked about seeing how you felt about me joining in sometimes, but this… This is perfect.”

All Yuri could think to say through his haze of giddy happiness was, “ _You’re_ perfect.”

“Will you stay with us?” Otabek whispered in his ear.

“I—” _Yes!_ screamed his heart. _Yes, I want this!_ “I think maybe we should take this slow.”

Stupid adulthood. Stupid making the mature, cautious decision instead of jumping into bed with the people he’d wanted for years. Stupid Yuri Plisetsky, passing up what would surely have been an incredible night.

Mila burst out laughing in his face. “Oh my god, Yura, did you think we were asking you for sex? I am _not_ risking a strained muscle before my free skate. You two can do whatever, but I’m getting my beauty rest.”

Yuri ended up thinking a lot about that ‘whatever’ he and Otabek could do while they were all getting undressed and climbing into bed together, but having sex for the first time while Mila was _right there_ but not a full participant sounded about as good as agreeing to date Otabek without her. It was all three together or nothing at all. Yuri kissed them both good-night and appreciated the arch of Mila’s back—and her ass, oh god, he could look at her ass without feeling like a creep now—as she leaned over to turn off the bedside lamp.

“We should still talk about boundaries,” Otabek said into the darkness. “I’ve never done anything like this. How do we make sure it works?”

Mila yawned loudly. “After I win gold tomorrow, we can talk about whatever you want. But right now, it’s sleep time. Cuddle with Yura and shut your beautiful face.”

Yuri thought of himself as somebody who needed his personal space. He didn’t like sharing a bed, and, in his still all-too-limited experience, he didn’t enjoy staying overnight after sex. Lying there now, he could imagine falling asleep every night with Otabek’s arm slung around his waist and Mila stretched out beside them, one of her feet stroking along Yuri’s ankle. It wasn’t quite the tangle of limbs he used to dream about, but he was coming to realize just how sweaty and uncomfy that would be over a whole night. This, the way they were right now, was just right.

Mila won her gold the next day, and Yuri took back everything he’d said about taking their physical relationship slowly. It was great. Logistically challenging and sure to bruise from Otabek accidentally kicking him in the shin at one point, but great. He’d never felt so wanted. Mila whispered a litany of desires as she ran her hands over his body, and Otabek followed every touch with his mouth until they finally had their fill of teasing him and brought him over the edge, Otabek sucking him while Mila used her fingers to make his hips jerk and dragged embarrassingly high-pitched cries out of his throat. He repaid them both in turn with a zeal that left his jaw sore in the morning. The real reward was finding out that Otabek was _not_ quiet in bed (neither was Mila, but that wasn’t such a surprise). And to think that had just been a taster of what they could do once they didn’t have a gala to worry about. Otabek had certainly been vocal about all the things he wanted to try in the near future.

Being a gold medalist meant Yuri had a good ninety minutes of downtime Sunday between the opening number and his exhibition skate. He’d insisted on maintaining some public distance from Otabek and Mila until they figured out how to let people know they were together, and so he kept himself warmed up on his own in an unused piece of hallway. It turned him into a sitting duck for Viktor at intermission. Viktor was in costume with his bangs perfectly gelled to keep them out of his eyes while still concealing his huge-ass forehead; he and Phichit had gotten the pity invites for losers whose exhibitions were too crowd-pleasing to pass up.

“Yura, there’s something we need to talk about.”

“I don’t want to have a threesome with you and Katsudon,” Yuri responded on auto-pilot, only realizing what had come out of his mouth when Viktor’s jaw dropped. Great, so now he had a new kneejerk response to that line, and it wasn’t any better than the old one.

“ _What_? No, no, nope, what the _fuck_ , why— Why would you even think that?”

Yuri grimaced. “Sorry, it just slipped out. I’ve had a weird week.”

“What the hell happened that would make you— No, you know what? Never mind. I don’t want to know. The thing we _actually_ need to talk about is your coaching situation. Yakov is bringing me on at the rink full-time now that we’re both retiring. I’m going to be choreographing at all levels, but he wanted me to take over coaching his elite seniors too. As in, you and Milya.”

Viktor looked fidgety, and Yuri couldn’t tell if it was because the threesome comment threw him off-guard or because he expected Yuri to fly into a rage. It was no secret at the rink that he’d lost it with Yakov when he got the news (“So you’ll stick around to the pathetic end for Viktor, but I’m on my own when I’m still getting started? Fuck you!”). He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t seen it coming. Yakov had slowly shed his skaters to other coaches in the club, and he was down to Yuri, Mila, and Viktor this season. He’d been pulling Viktor over to help with critique more and more often. Viktor’s advice was even kind of good. The line of succession was clear. That didn’t mean Yakov couldn’t have told Yuri what was going on earlier than his 18th fucking birthday.

All that didn’t seem as dire anymore, so Yuri shrugged and said, “Yeah, I figured that was the plan.”

“I know Yakov didn’t talk to you about it, so I wanted to make sure it was all right before I started signing contracts.”

“I said it’s fine.”

Viktor frowned at him. “You’re fine with people making long-term decisions about your career without consulting you? Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Better than good. I’m…” He paused to think through the next thing out of his mouth for once. He’d wanted to keep this as something just for him a bit longer, but it would be better to tell the truth now than to let Viktor worry and make a fuss. A fussing Viktor would mean a concerned Yuuri, and yet another well-meaning not-quite-an-intervention from the pair of them would make Yuri stab his eardrums out. “I’m dating Beka and Milya.”

He knew the hug was coming. He _knew_ it, but it still knocked the wind out of him, and Viktor literally squealed like a teenage girl.

“Oh my god! Yurio, I’m so happy for you! We knew you were in love with one of them—Yuuri was sure it was Otabek, but I always kind of thought you’d go for Milya—but it was both? And they both like you back? Oh, that’s so perfect! To be honest, I didn’t like the guy you were seeing last year. He didn’t seem very supportive of your skating. And that gymnast girl at your birthday was nice enough, but don’t you think she was a little groupie-ish? Not judging you, kitten, I was an idiot about who I slept with at your age too, but—” He trailed off at Yuri’s warning grumble. “Anyway. Can I tell Yuuri about this? He’s going to notice I was really happy about something today, but I can say it’s because you accepted me as a coach if you want. Hey, that gives me an idea—”

“Whoa! Slow down!” He pushed Viktor off him. “You can tell Katsudon. We’ll go public on our own terms soon, so it’s not going to be a state secret or anything. And I didn’t fuck the gymnast, you creep.”

“Because she was a groupie?”

“Yeah, yeah, she started getting weird when we were making out, so I put the brakes on. You can spot skeezy people at fifty paces, I know, save the gloating for somebody who gives a shit.”

Viktor grinned. “Can I tell you my idea now?”

“Ugh, fine.”

“Well, right now, public opinion is that I’m a good coach for Yuuri, but most people think it only works because we’re soulmates. But if I do well with you and Milya—and I’m going to—then everyone will have to accept that I’m just an all-around good coach. So let’s say one, maybe two years from now, Otabek wants a better shot at medaling outside of Grand Prix quals and Four Continents, and so he decides to switch coaches to someone who will play to his strengths without coddling his weaknesses like his current training team does. Don’t make that face at me, you know it’s true. He’ll need a coach like, just to name an example, me. You see where I’m going with this?”

Yuri paused mid-eyeroll to stare at Viktor. He raised his eyebrows and gave that smug little half-smile that meant he knew exactly what Yuri was thinking, so calling him a motherfucker would just make him more insufferable. Slowly, Yuri placed his hands on Viktor’s shoulders and looked him dead in the eyes.

“Vitya, you’d better listen closely, because you will never hear this from me again: You are a fucking genius.”

* * *

**19.**

#milabekio was the worst hashtag Yuri had ever seen. Sure, Milabek had been the established ship name (ugh) before him, but did fans have to append it with his fucking nickname? Couldn’t they have been Yurimilabek, or maybe Otayurimila to change it up? Why did they need a fucking mashup ship name in the first place? Sometimes he wanted them all to become hermits so they’d never again be tagged with that stupid name in another social media post.

But then there were moments like this morning, when he woke to Mila’s phone trained on his face and was gleefully confronted with a picture of himself dozing. It was pretty sweet, actually. He looked relaxed and happy, with Puma Tiger Scorpion snuggled up on the pillow beside his head. He gave Mila the okay to post it to her private account, and it took Otabek all of 30 seconds to notice and comment with an angel emoji. Yuri replied, _wanna nap when you get here so you can finally see this angelic sleeping face in person again?_ He closed the app before their friends’ (over)reaction made him growl, delete it, and then repost it when he realized he enjoyed showing off that he was the best damn boyfriend on the planet.

“Let’s give him a taste of what else he’s missing,” Mila whispered in Yuri’s ear.

They texted him a picture of Mila draped artfully over Yuri’s chest, showing just enough of their hiplines to make it clear they were naked under the sheets. Otabek’s response was swift and frustrated.

_I’m at the AIRPORT, you demons, WHY???_

_so rub one out in the bathroom_ , Yuri texted back.

_Better idea: I’ll need you both to make it up to me later tonight_

“Oh, I’ve got a few ideas for that,” Mila murmured, and so Yuri kissed her thoroughly before sending his reply.

_looking forward to it. see you at 1:00_

Otabek sent back a thumbs-up emoji, which Yuri recognized as the sign that he was out of things to say and ending the conversation. Mila gave him a quick squeeze around the waist and got out of bed to dress, slowing down her movements and sending him amused smiles once she noticed him watching. She sauntered back to the bed so he could run his hands over her torso before she slipped on her bra. He was still feeling a bit clingy after last night, a night spent wrapped up in her, moving inside her as slowly as he could while they planned what they would do once they had Otabek in bed with them again.

Mila’s were the first breasts he’d gotten to touch as more than a quick grope over clothing. Breasts were his second favorite body part, he decided, right after thighs. Mila and Otabek both had perfect thighs. He’d learned so much about bodies in general this year. Finding ways to fit the three of them together in one bed (or sofa, or shower) involved a lot of laughing and the occasional leg cramp, but in the end it was always worth it.

He’d once overheard Viktor and Chris earnestly discussing how incredible soulmate sex was compared to the ‘regular’ kind (their word, not his), and he was pretty sure they were full of shit. He didn’t need direct access to Otabek and Mila’s emotions to feel the _I love you_ in every move they made. None of them had said the actual words yet. They didn’t need to.

They had an abbreviated day at the rink before Viktor set them free to meet Otabek at the airport. Well, if ‘set free’ meant following them around with endless last-minute reminders and invitations to dinner every evening of their mini-vacation. Yuri didn’t give Viktor too hard a time about it. Losing Makkachin last month made him more absent-minded than usual, and he and Yuuri were starved for company in the evenings, anything to distract from the unnatural quiet of their home. Yuri and Mila promised to stop by every day, but if they didn’t hit the road they were going to strand Otabek at Pulkovo.

There was a steady stream of passengers at the international arrivals gate, but no Otabek so far. The flight from Almaty had coincided with several others. This was normal, Yuri reminded himself. There was absolutely no reason to be concerned about what was taking Otabek so fucking _long_ to get through customs. He’d sent a text when he was boarding. He definitely hadn’t changed his mind and gone running off the plane at the last second because that was ridiculous, and only an idiot would think about something like that.

One half of Yuri’s mental voice was starting to sound like Yuuri right before an intense competition, and the other half was about as good as Viktor at being reassuring. He was maybe going to puke if Otabek didn’t show up in the next ten seconds.

“There he is!” Mila cried out.

Otabek stepped out of the gate with a giant suitcase and a backpack. He spotted Mila and Yuri and raised his free arm in a wave, the sparkle in his eyes clear even across the crowded terminal.

_He was here._

Yuri’s longer legs should have given him an advantage to reach Otabek first, but Mila had agility and a willingness to elbow through clusters of people on her side. By the time Yuri caught up, she’d taken a flying leap into Otabek’s arms and nearly knocked him off his feet with the force of her kiss. Countless phones were already aimed their way. Instead of feeling uncomfortable at having his life up for public consumption yet again, Yuri wanted to turn to every one of those cameras and say, ‘Yeah, that’s my boyfriend and girlfriend making out in the airport because they’re the hottest people in the world, and they’re going to have ridiculously athletic sex with me tonight, also probably at least once this afternoon, what of it?’

When it was his turn, he went for more of a gentle brush of lips against lips. Otabek was looking overwhelmed from Mila’s pounce, but he was also quietly, obviously over the moon with happiness. He leaned up into Yuri’s kiss and smiled against his mouth. He didn’t even protest when Yuri stole his suitcase and started walking them all back to the parking garage, where their borrowed car was waiting.

There was a roar of applause before Mila jogged up beside Yuri and fell into step with him. Otabek had glanced over his shoulder and turned back, shaking his head and lightly snickering to himself, when Mila joined them. Yuri didn’t look back; he’d see whatever she’d done on social media later, no doubt.

“So,” said Otabek, casually reaching over to take Yuri’s free hand as they walked, “are we headed straight to afternoon practice, or can I take you up on that nap offer?”

“Vitya said we can have three days off—which is bullshit, by the way, he took a whole week without even asking Yakov when Katsudon moved here—but you should stop by the rink to finalize your paperwork and get your ID card tomorrow.”

“Has he moved on the ballet thing at all?”

Yuri wrinkled his nose. “I talked him down to one class and your choice of a yoga or Pilates session per week, but he won’t budge past that. He’s going back on all of it if you get under eights on your PCS again next season. Yuuri’s taking his side, so there’s no way to wear him down.”

“Well, the whole premise of this coaching switch is raising my components and improving my spins. If that’s what he thinks I need, that’s what I’ll do. He's the boss.”

His even tone and carefully neutral expression told Yuri he still wasn’t thrilled with it, not after swearing to show the world that successful skaters didn’t need to be dancers. They did need to hit their spin levels, though, and Yuri knew deep down that Viktor was right to insist on at least some ballet for extensions and expression. But Yuri also knew where his loyalties lay, and he’d fight Viktor on which way was north if Otabek or Mila asked. Plus, fighting Viktor was fun. Nobody else was willing to throw down with him so mercilessly. Yuuri swore he never felt Viktor get genuinely angry during their arguments, so he probably enjoyed it too.

“He’s a total bastard who just wants to say his students swept the men’s podiums at the Grand Prix Final and Worlds,” Yuri grumbled, as if he didn’t want the exact same thing.

“Hey, that total bastard and his husband invited us over for dinner, so be nice,” said Mila with a light jab of her elbow into Yuri’s side. She ducked around Otabek and slipped his arm over her shoulders to escape a counterattack.

The mention of food perked Otabek up, which for him meant a brisk nod and the hint of smile. “Are they making Japanese curry?” Viktor and Yuuri had cooked it for them several times before while Otabek was visiting, and Otabek declared, sacrilegiously, that he liked it even better than katsudon.

“Yep,” said Mila. “Text them your ingredient choices, mister guest of honor. Vitya even said we can have potatoes.”

“Empty starches, wow. I guess you two aren’t the only ones happy I’m here.”

“We’ve got a few hours before we have to go over there, though.” Yuri leaned down to whisper in Otabek’s ear. “Milya was thinking of getting out the strap-on so we could spit roast you. How would you like that?”

Otabek shuddered. “ _Airport_ ,” he ground out between his teeth.

“Is Yura talking dirty again?” Mila piped up from his other side. “You know he just does that because you get all flustered, right? Better get used to it now that you’re stuck with us year-round.”

“’M not flustered,” Otabek grumbled, as if they couldn’t see the blush creeping up his neck.

Yuri gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Welcome home.”

The #milabekio tags blew up that day—complete with video clips of Mila’s dramatic bow on their exit—and Yuri fave’d every single post he saw.

* * *

**20.**

Through the windows of the practice rink, Yuri watched Viktor and Yuuri pause to make out in the parking lot. He couldn’t pretend not to have cried when Yuuri came back. Both Viktors had started to fade into empty shells of themselves without their soulmates, and it was horrible to watch. Seeing Viktor in Yuuri’s arms again was like seeing him come back from the dead.

The younger Viktor, if he was real and not some weird time travel construct, was probably halfway to the airport with a ticket to Detroit in his world by now. He hadn’t been so bad in the end. Seeing him from a vantage point of two years instead of twelve made Yuri realize, against his own better judgment, how much they had in common. 22-year-old Viktor was hungry for success and angry as hell at himself for not being able to reach it the way he wanted.

Yuri had no earthly idea what to do with the obvious fact that Viktor had literally been fucking himself. The way they acted around each other gave it away. It was _weird_ but also the exact kind of over-the-top ridiculousness you’d expect of Viktor Nikiforov. At least it seemed like Yuuri would be into that, so there wasn’t a divorce on the horizon when he found out.

Yuri grabbed his phone off the boards and sent, _btw not bribing the cops to let you go when you get arrested for sucking your husband off in public_. He suspected, and ended up being right, that there wouldn’t be a response for hours (and the brain-scorching vulgarity of the reply would later have him shaking his head at his younger self for ever believing Viktor didn’t know how to swear). Viktor was much too busy pressing Yuuri up against the side of their car and pawing at his ass in broad daylight.

Otabek was the first to draw their attention back to the ice. “Not to kill the moment or anything, but he didn’t say who’s running the session. Are we sticking with the plan, or should we have a rest day of our own?”

“Technically, Yura’s got club seniority,” said Mila. “He started here a year before I did when we were kids. So what are we doing today, mister temporary assistant coach?”

He thought about going home. After all, if Yuuri could skip out on practice to get laid, why couldn’t they? Training was so intense in the lead-up to the season that they mostly spent their rest days napping or zoned out on the sofa. Yuri hadn’t had sex in almost a week, and the last time was a quick handjob in the shower with just Otabek. It had been more like a month since the three of them found time to be together.

“Well?” Otabek prompted him gently.

Yuri set his hands on his hips, drew himself up to his full height (plus skates), and looked down his nose at Otabek and Mila. Sex was great, but post-medal sex was better. And like hell he was going to let Yuuri take all the golds again this season.

“You heard the old man when we got here,” he said, pulling out every scrap of I’m-in-charge-here attitude that he possessed. “We’re jumping until our legs fall off. Then full run-throughs of both programs, holding nothing back.”

“Yes, coach!”

There were days when Yuri wasn’t sure their relationship would last. It wasn’t because of any soulmates-are-better bullshit; everybody knew that was fake. But they could get on each other’s last nerves sometimes, and it was hard to find personal space in their small apartment. Maybe someday they would shift back into a couple and their third-wheel friend, perhaps in a different configuration from before. Maybe they’d split altogether. Maybe they’d beat the odds and end up a trio of old fogies, pottering around a dacha in the summers and reminiscing about how much more legit figure skating used to be before they invented anti-gravity boots for octuple jumps or whatever.

For now, though, Yuri was young. He was ridiculously in love, and finally saying so in those exact words, with two gorgeous and caring people. He also had a Grand Prix Final to win (sorry, not sorry, Beka) in a few months. He ended his short program combo with a quad toe and threw in triple loops after every solo jump in the free skate just to challenge himself. Otabek responded with a sequence of six triple toes following his quad Lutz, even though it meant skipping his next transition to stay with the music, and Mila called them over-competitive morons before doing every single jump in the free skate with both her arms held in perfect third position over her head. The rink echoed with their laughter and increasingly rude insults as the early morning light brightened to day and their blades carved filigree patterns, intricate and temporary, into the ice.

**Author's Note:**

> Staying on-theme for the Measure-verse, the title comes from Jorge Luis Borges. The phrase is from his “ _Las kenningar_ ,” an essay on kennings in Old Norse skaldic verse. The full sentence reads: “Reducing each kenning to one word is not clarifying the unknown: it is undoing the poem.” I was cruising through random selections of Borges, trying to find something, _anything_ that fit this story, and suddenly there it was, like a beacon to my kenning-loving medievalist soul. Just as you can’t flatten “Hildr [a Valkyrie] of the drinking horn” into “woman” without losing the poetry, nor can you divorce the individual terms from their connotation, you can’t separate Yuri’s relationship with Otabek and Mila into its component parts or smash it into a single idea. Doesn't stop Yuri wanting to do exactly that at first!
> 
> Fun fact: The first draft had Mila jumping with her arms in _fifth_ position in that last scene, but something about it made my brain itch with barely recalled dance theory lessons of twenty years ago. Sure enough, the fifth position (both arms held over the head) I learned in a French-school ballet studio is third position in Russian technique. So there we go!


End file.
